


Damaged Property, Broken Plates, and Burnt Food

by GreyPezzola



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyPezzola/pseuds/GreyPezzola
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or how Moran and Moriarty are occasionally very bad at communicating. (Spoilers for His Last Vow!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damaged Property, Broken Plates, and Burnt Food

**Author's Note:**

> Does contain spoilers!
> 
> Written for LordMorans on tumblr.

There was a small cottage by the sea side that stood empty for the past two years except for when the housekeeper came in to dust. There was also a nice town house in one of the nicest districts of London that had the signs of actually being inhabited very rarely. There was a country estate that was slowly being eaten by an untamed and neglected garden. In the space of two days, each had been trashed. The housekeeper told his wife that it really was a pity that a vandal had chosen the small cottage to destroy because it had been so loved, but that was what happened when a house stood empty for too long. The destruction of everything in the town house without any of the alarms being set off sent the whole area in a state of panic as they updated their systems, scared the same fate would happen to them. No one noticed the country estate for many weeks because no one ever went there, but He knew.

That was the point, Moran reflected as he took a drag from his cigarette, as long as He knew, He would come to find out who destroyed everything. He didn’t have to be clever to make Him pay attention, he only had to be clever to get praise and Moran didn’t want praise. Taking another drag, he wrapped his coat more firmly around himself and continued on his way to the underground. Maybe he was over reacting, he mused as he flicked the butt into an ash tray before descending the stairs, but either way it had been therapeutic. Either He was really back, or Moran had to start to deal with some of the grief that had made him so dedicated to his work.

The station was busy as it should be during the rush to get home. Moran didn’t mind, he had once explained that it was a bit like being a snake in a bunch of mice, they were cute enough and wrapped up in their lives and unaware of just how much danger he presented. He had bit Moran in retaliation just shy of his inferior vena cava and muttered how if Moran was a snake, then he was an eagle. Moran had kept his own council on saying that maybe he was more of a saint than an eagle with the way He had driven so many of London’s snakes out to build his web. Still, Moran mused as he made his way to his train, he was a damned good snake.

When Moran arrived to his small flat, the change in scent was enough to put his guard up. Someone had cooked something that smelled like toast in his home, but that had been several hours ago. There was no sounds of a person shuffling about nor any other tell tale signs that another being had been here, but Moran still placed his messenger bag gently on the ground to pull a gun from it’s holster. He made his way silently through the flat, making way through the building until he hit the kitchen.

“No.” The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

“Sebastian, did you mi-” He puts down the newspaper onto the counter where an empty plate and mug sit.

“No. Don’t. Don’t even say that.” Moran said flatly. “You do not get to show up two years later and say the same fucking words you said to the entirety of London as greeting.”

He stood, all oddly soft lines in his impeccable suit. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“I will shoot you.”

“Oooh! I did miss that. Go ahead shoot.” He smiled and opened his arms to give Moran a clear shot.

“I want answers first.”

“Seb, did you really not know?”

There is a gunshot and the wall just shy of Moriarty’s head has a new hole.

“Obviously. Now talk.”

“It was boring, the game, Sherlock, I just wasn’t happy.” Moran didn’t look away from Moriarty as a dish shattered from the wall where it was hung decoratively. He had heard the unspoken words of ‘being domestic’ clearly enough.

“I can’t say I’m sorry that I left so suddenly, you know how I can’t stand boredom.” Moriarty frowned. “It was really a spur of the moment thing and I thought you’d be clever enough to figure it out.”

“No. No it wasn’t. You plan things out in advance. I have known you for how long?” Moran stated flatly.

“Fine, it was planned.” Moriarty smiled and shrugged. “But you can’t blame me, we used to move around every few months and suddenly we’re in the same house for a year, being d-”

The entire wall around Moritarty is suddenly riddled with holes as Moran empties his gun around Moriarty’s head. He dropped the gun the second it is empty and then wheeled around to grab a plate. It too flew past Moriary’s head to smash against the wall. Two more join the first two and Moran slammed both his fists against the counter.

“You killed yourself. I heard the shot in my ear and the crack as your head hit the cement. I then had to keep in position and wait for Holmes to jump when all I wanted was to run and check on you.” Moran eyes were screwed shut as he spoke. “All of your body I could see from my position was your shoulder and some blood and you not moving. I had to leave the scene because the police were going to come. All I knew is that you were gone and the government wouldn’t even give the body out for me to bury.”

His hand felt their way down to the drawer which he yanked open and pulled out a knife. “And you did all of this because you were bored? You were bored of being given tea in bed after you had been up until 4 in the morning. You were bored of movie nights and trying to clean out blood stains from my best shirts. Of blueberry pancakes and late night chinese food runs after a job had gone on too long. Of the after kill adrenaline rush. You were bored.”

“Seb-”

“Shut up, I’m not done.” Moran barked, pointing the knife at Moriarty. “You left all that we had instead of talking to me like an adult. You were the smartest man I knew and you couldn’t even tell me you were bored.”

“What would you have done if I had told you, Sebastian?”

“Anything you wanted me to do. I loved you!” He yelled, facing Moriarty. The knife buried itself into the wall. Moran’s body then loosened, all tension leaving him. He spoke softly, “I loved you and you left me wondering what I had done wrong. What signs I had missed that you were so unhappy that suicide was the only answer. And I blamed myself. I loved you.”

Sebastian then turned away from the man at the counter and crossed to the refrigerator and opened it. He pulled out a bag of carrots and a package of chicken. Wordlessly, he opened the drawer and withdrew a knife and a cutting board. He walked around his kitchen, removing items and placing them on the counter, brushing off the shards of ceramic onto the floor. He started cooking, ignoring the man who was still perched on the stool at his counter.

The silence dragged on as Sebastian chopped the carrots and dumbed them into the pot. Then finally when all the ingredients had been added and the pot was over a low simmering fire did Moran speak.

“Drink, sir?” he stated blandly, pulling a glass from the cupboard.

“Yes.” Jim said softly. “Please.” The glass shattered in his hand at the word, but Moran didn’t even flinch. He pulled down two more glasses and after picking a shard of glass out of his thumb, he crossed to the refrigerator.

“I have cider and orange juice. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“Cider is fine.” Moran nodded and grabbed the bottle. He poured the liquid into the glasses and placed one in front of Moriary.

“It smells nice.” Moriarty commented before taking a sip.

“It should be. It’s homemade.” Moran states.

“What have you been doing since..?”

“I did a few jobs, but it didn’t feel right without it being for you. Your jobs were always elegant, my new employers were less so. A man, Magnussen, wanted to hire me for my talents, but his style had no class to it.” He sighed. “So I retired. Got a civilian job. Is there a problem with the cider?”

Moriarty had been giving the glass a funny look. “This is just regular juice.”

“Yes. I started drinking too much with you gone, so my employer made me detox before I could return to work.”

“But you loved whiskey.”

“I do indeed.” Moran stated before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

“Join me, if you want.”

He sat on the couch in the front room, sipping his beautifully made juice as he gave Moriarty enough time to collect his thoughts. He opened the book he had been reading over the past week, a dry military history book that didn’t talk enough about the snipers they were describing. About twenty pages later, he heard Moriarty move from his seat. Moran closed his eyes and listened as Moriarty stepped over the broken pottery.

There was the rustle of fabric and Moran looks up to see Jim, his tie held in his hand. It’s not Moriarty in his perfect suit and shiny shoes, it is Jim in his post work outfit of being half dressed but too tired to move. It’s Jim halfway through his morning routine. It’s the man he fell in love with at four in the morning after a job that went horribly wrong.

Jim crossed the room and sat down on the opposite side of the couch. Moran reads while Jim sits very quietly, contemplating the wall at good length.

“Seb, I didn’t mean to-” Moran shut his book loudly and stood up.

“Give me two minutes, don’t move.” Moran stated. He left the room to go to his bathroom. After opening the medicine cabinet and getting out what he needed, he looked himself in the mirror. It was the same scarred face that he was now using to help sell his image as a high level chef, the same scarred hands that had killed as many people as he had prepared food for at the posh restaurant he now worked in. Moran pulled out his contacts and placed on his glasses, the ones that Jim said made him look like an old man, and then Sebastian returned to the front room.

Jim’s face lit up in a way that Sebastian had missed so dearly when he saw the glasses. He made an aborted movement towards Sebastian. “You were saying?”

Jim patted the couch next to him and Sebastian sat down next to him with only a small gap between the two of them.

“Seb, I didn’t mean to cause you pain, but it was all so boring. Not the domestic part of it, but the monotony of running a criminal ring. Sherlock was a great, shiny distraction, but even he got predictable.” Jim again made an aborted movement towards Sebastian, “I missed you. Not at first when all that freedom had gone to my head, but after. On late nights and early mornings. I would have come back sooner, but the Ice Man had you under surveillance.”

Sebastian huffed a sigh. Jim closed his eyes in his expression of quick, superstitious, prayer. Then he reached out and placed his hand on Sebastian’s which twitched, but did not move to reciprocate the move.

“It wasn’t convenient.”

“When has convenience mattered to you?” Sebastian stated, giving Jim a hard glance from out of the corner of his glasses.

“If I had come back before and someone had seen me, it would have been eternal cat and mouse and we would have had nothing. And that would have been fun for a litttle while, but it too would have gotten boring.”

“I would have had you, instead of a nice kitchen that is never a mess because someone decided it needed to be reorganized and a boring job making food for people who would never even guess that my superior blade skills came from anything but the finest culinary schools.” Sebastian’s body was tense again, but he made no move to remove his hand.

A silence hung between them for a while until Jim said very softly, “I’m sorry, Tiger.”

Sebastian’s hand finally moved to hold Jim’s hand back. “I know, boss.”

The timer dinged from the kitchen and Sebastian sighed expansively. He went to stand up, but Jim held onto his hand. “Food’s going to burn.”

“I know.” Jim tugged and Sebastian fell back into the couch.

“If this burns, you will have to deal with the consequences.” Sebastian said. “It won’t be like every other time where we can just start over. I can’t… I don’t have the right ingredients.”

Jim nodded, “Noted, Basher.” Then Sebastian untangled their hands and started to head towards the kitchen.

“You coming, boss? Don’t you want see what we can make with whatever’s left?” Sebastian called over his shoulder.

Jim smiled, standing up from the couch to wrap his hand around his arm. “Nothing would bring me more joy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the child of Harrison's (LordMorans) and I late night talking about head canons for Moran and Moriarty. I would offer to explain a lot of them, but I'm a busy college student. But if you are dying to hear why Moran cooks so well, feel free to message and I may, eventually, get back to you.


End file.
